


Let Me Love You

by irrationalgame



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Great War, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, PTSD, Romance, War, happy endings, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When dreams of the war haunt Thomas, comfort comes from the one person he thought would never give him what he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Love You

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: violence in the form of dreams about the war and mentions of Edward Courtenay's suicide.

Sometimes Thomas would go weeks, even months, without dreaming about the war. As time passed and the memories faded the dreams had become less prevalent and less disturbing, but they were still there at the back of his consciousness, waiting to jump out of the shadows when he let his guard down.

Recently the dreams had returned; Thomas supposed it was because it was nearing the anniversary of Edward Courtenay's death - that day could always be relied upon to make the dreams come crashing back with sickening clarity. Thomas sighed and rolled over onto his side, the sheets of his cot cold and lonely, his room sparse and unlovely. It struck him that for all his years in this house he had little to show for it except a sullied reputation and one friend.

But that one friend _was_ rather worth it.

To say things hadn't always gone well between Jimmy and himself was an understatement; Thomas grimaced at the memory of the way he'd thrown himself at Jimmy, his near-dismissal and the year he'd spent in shame as Jimmy reviled him and everyone else ignored him. Things were better now; not how Thomas had wanted them to be, but they were firm friends and that was something to be cherished. In Thomas's experience friendships had been few and far between - true friendships had been even rarer. He recalled how O'Brien had turned on him in a second and silently cursed himself for ever being fool enough to trust her. Oh well, she was gone now; even _she_ couldn't hurt him from another continent. It was a pity she'd chosen India though - Thomas had always imagined that would be his place to escape to, if ever the need had arisen. He supposed America would do; it was rather modern and he fancied he could live an almost open life if he found the right city and the right part of town.

He shook his head - he'd never leave whilst Jimmy was still at Downton. Not unless he was forced out at any rate. The thought of never seeing him again was unbearable; it made his chest ache. No, he'd take his friendship and his own pathetic pining and be happy with that.

And die a lonely old man who no-one ever loved.

Thomas rolled his eyes at his own melodramatic, maudlin thoughts and flicked off the lamp, determined to go to sleep and just forget about everything for a few hours. If the ghosts of the war would let him.

~

Jimmy staggered back into Downton hoping that everyone would be asleep and he wouldn't have to pretend to be sober. He was lucky - only Mrs Hughes remained downstairs, reading by lamplight in her sitting room.

"Ah, James," she smiled thinly, "you're back. I can lock up and turn in myself now."

"Goodnight Mrs Hughes," Jimmy hiccuped, keeping his distance; he probably smelled like a brewery and he was swaying a little from inebriation. Mrs Hughes gave him a knowing frown but said no more, letting Jimmy escape up the servants' staircase. He didn't remember there being quite so many steps, or that they were so difficult to scale - he tripped noisily, his feet echoing in the silence.

"Shhhh," he chastised himself, "don't bloody wake up Carson!" He giggled; he was drunk. It had been happening a lot recently - Jimmy had spent every half day in the last two months at the pub, getting well and truly squiffy. A few people had commented on his behaviour but he'd waved it off, citing boredom as the reason. That was, of course, only partly true. He was bored: bored with Downton and bored with life in service and bored of Ivy flirting with him and bored of never having any fun.

And bored of pretending.

Well, that wasn't fair. He had some fun. He liked playing piano, especially when Mr Barrow oohed and ah'd at his skills or asked him to play that Chopin piece again. Or when he and Mr Barrow played cards, chatting and laughing conspiratorially. And when they smoked together in the yard, an easy and comfortable silence spread between them like the rolling hills of Yorkshire itself. Or better still, when their half-days chanced to line up and they could take a trip to Ripon or Thirsk or even York, chatting on the bus and crowding next to each other at a table for dinner, their thighs pressed together. Jimmy grinned; Mr Barrow was the only good thing about Downton.

Sometimes, when Mr Barrow was particularly nice, or funny, or conscientious, Jimmy's conscience would strike him like a heavy punch in the stomach and it would be all he could do not to run out of the room and vomit. He had been ambitious and spiteful and stupid and had hurt the one person who cared a damn about him. And it seemed, if the thoughts he had been having recently were any indication, he was also a bloody hypocrite.

So he drank, not so much out of boredom, but to forget that he wasn't bored at all. He was, he supposed, besotted. And that just wouldn't do. He couldn't be in love, or lust, or anything with a man. He was Jimmy Kent; ladies man, world-weary and thoroughly modern. He was the epitome of masculinity. And talented. And clever. And most certainly not lavender. No. No flipping way. It was a phase and it would pass, if he just ignored it and stopped touching himself to the image of Mr Barrow's naked body,

Jimmy frowned and forced his legs up the last few stairs and into the servants' quarters - all the lights were out and the corridor was quiet. Jimmy tiptoed towards his room, stopping briefly at Mr Barrow's door. He leaned his forehead against the wood, wondering how Mr Barrow looked when he was sleeping. He was about to leave when he heard quiet sobbing from within Mr Barrow's bedroom. Jimmy stopped and pushed his ear against the door; yes, Mr Barrow was crying, alone in the dark of his room.

Jimmy's stomach lurched and his bottom lip trembled. What was wrong? Was Mr Barrow sick? Or depressed? Had he received some bad news? Was he so lonely that he cried himself to sleep every night? Jimmy didn't care about propriety or how it would look if he were caught; his Thomas was weeping and Jimmy had to know why. He twisted the door handle and found it unlocked, so he let himself quietly into Mr Barrow's room.

~

Thomas sobbed against the back of his hand, trying to quell his tears and calm the heaving of his chest. It had been the worst dream he'd experienced since he'd spent his nights in the trenches, huddled and terrified as the shells fell and the very ground shook. He'd been there again in his dream, fighting through the waterlogged trenches, carrying a stretcher and searching for the injured. Searching for Lieutenant Courtenay, but he was no-where to be found.

"He gone over," a soldier shouted at him - his name had been Miles or Milne or something when he'd been alive. Now, as in the dream, he was very much dead, his neck soaked with his own blood, a bullet wound in his face. So Thomas had gone over the top too, abandoning the stretcher and crawling though the inch-deep mud, bullets whizzing past his head and mortars landing so close he could feel the shrapnel tear at his uniform.

"Edward!" Thomas cried, pushing on even though his legs and arms screamed with exertion. Then he spotted him, face-down in the mire, all bloodied and broken like a rag doll that had been run over with a cart. Thomas rolled his body over and it was his Edward, eyes scarred and clouded from the gas, wrists slashed. And then he wasn't Edward any more; he was Jimmy and he was dead and cold, his beautiful face ruined, his limbs lifeless. Thomas had howled into the night, wishing for the Jerries to just hurry up and kill him so he didn't have to think or feel or remember how he'd loved, loved with everything he had, just to be ruined and alone.

And Thomas had woken already crying, his pyjamas slick with sweat and tears, and found he couldn't stop.

~

"Thomas," Jimmy said softly, closing the door behind him with a click. Thomas looked up, just able to make out Jimmy's outline in the dark. He swallowed hard, trying to choke back his tears, but failing miserably.

"Jimmy, ah, what are you doing?" Thomas stuttered, his words punctuated with sobs.

"You're crying," Jimmy replied, though it wasn't the answer to any question Thomas had asked.

"Yes," Thomas said, sitting up and turning on his lamp. He was a mess, his hair dishevelled and flopping into his red-rimmed and streaming eyes.

"Oh," Jimmy said, his face screwed up with worry when he saw Thomas's countenance. He crossed the room and sat beside Thomas on the cot, throwing an uncertain arm around the under-butler's shoulder. Thomas stiffened at his touch and turned away, embarrassed.

"I'm alright," he lied, "just a bad dream I s'pose."

"Oh," Jimmy repeated, unconvinced. Thomas noticed the pungent aroma of alcohol on Jimmy's breath; he'd been drinking a lot recently and Thomas was concerned about him, about the unknown sorrows he was trying to drown. Jimmy pulled Thomas closer, pressing their chests together and wrapping both arms around Thomas's still-shaking body.

"S'alright Thomas," Jimmy soothed, his palms rubbing gentle circles on Thomas's back. Unable to stop himself, Thomas burst into a fresh bout of tears and collapsed against Jimmy. He let himself be rocked in Jimmy's arms as the footman whispered kindly, reassuring words into his ear. Thomas buried his face in Jimmy's neck, revelling in his warmth and affection, strangely glad for the awful dream as it had bought the real Jimmy into his bedroom.

"Now are you going to tell me," Jimmy said, caressing the side of Thomas's head, "or do I have to stay here all night?"

"Can't I have both?" Thomas managed to reply. Jimmy snorted, his lips curving into a smile.

"We'll see bout that," Jimmy grinned and Thomas smiled sombrely, his tears slowing; Jimmy felt as though his bones had melted into something warm and lovely.

"Do you ever dream of the war?" Thomas asked, his breath hot against Jimmy's neck.

"Yes, more often than I'd like," Jimmy replied, running his fingers up and down Thomas's spine.

"What do you dream about?" Thomas's hands balled in Jimmy's jacket, his eyes closed.

"It's always the same," Jimmy answered, "the gas is coming, crawling over the ground like a living thing, and I jus' know it's after me. So I run, out into no-mans land, trying to escape it and all 'round me people are falling and dying, bits of them dropping off into the mud an' I can smell the death an' the rot," Jimmy stammered, feeling the pinpricks of tears behind his own eyes. "And I fall then, into the mud but s'not mud anymore, it's thick blood and it's horrid. So I get up and I run, panicking even though I know it's deadly to run about like a headless chicken. And I run straight into the barbed wire then, I don't even see it till it's too late. Of course, I'm stuck in it. And there's other men stuck in it too, but they ain't right. They're all dead and rotten, their hands reaching out for me, pulling at me uniform." Jimmy shuddered and leaned into Thomas's embrace. "An' then the gas gets me. And, thankfully, I wake up."

"Oh Jimmy," Thomas said sadly, "I'm sorry."

"S'alright," Jimmy shrugged, still rocking Thomas gently in his arms. "Far as I can tell most of us came back from that _hell_ a bit damaged. D'ya think the dreams will ever stop?"

"Probably not," Thomas shook his head. "It'll get better, but the memories will always be there."

Jimmy nodded, then said; "So are you gonna tell me 'bout your dream or not? Only seems fair, after I told you mine."

Thomas sighed and related his dream to Jimmy, leaving out the footman's starring role.

"This Lieutenant Courtenay - you knew him in the war?" Jimmy asked.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Thomas nodded against Jimmy's chest. "After I got my Blighty I worked in the hospital; he was a patient. He'd been blinded by the gas and he weren't coping too well with it. Lady Sybil" - Thomas choked back his tears at the thought of the lovely, sweet girl - "Lady Sybil and I tried to look after him, to teach him to walk with a stick an' that. And it were going well, until Clarkson threatened to send him away."

"What happened?" Jimmy said, a lump in his throat. He could tell by Thomas's tone it wasn't going to be a happy tale.

"Edward couldn't stand it, being sent away. Or being blind. I don't know really what it was in the end that made him take a razor to his wrists in the night. It was too late to ask by the time the nurse found him." Thomas's body trembled in Jimmy's arms, clearly overwrought.

"Did you...love him?" Jimmy said, the quiver in his voice evidence of his jealousy. Thomas looked up at Jimmy through his lashes, his grey eyes glassy.

"I barely knew him," Thomas whispered, "but I think I could've loved him, if he'd let me. But he was gone before I had chance to try." A great sob shook his chest and he mumbled; "No one ever lets me love them an' no one's ever loved me."

At that Jimmy burst into tears, burying his face in Thomas's hair. It was too much to bear - too much to know that Thomas thought he was unloved and unlovable when Jimmy was sure he'd never loved anyone more. He planted kisses all over Thomas's forehead and cheek, his hands cupping Thomas's face. The under-butler went very still, like a rabbit caught in the lights of an oncoming motor, a sharp intake of breath the only indication of his shock and pleasure.

"Jimmy, what?" Thomas managed to mumble as Jimmy kissed along his jaw.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Jimmy said, still raining kisses on Thomas's face. "I'm sorry I made you feel like that too. I do want you to love me - oh Thomas, it's the only thing that keeps me going some days, knowing you love me. But I never thought how it'd hurt you, loving me and not knowin' I loved you back. I'm selfish, you know, and I don't know how to do _this_."

Thomas pulled away, his brow furrowed. "Jimmy I - I don't understand. You said - you said you'd never want me."

"No I didn't," Jimmy shook his head. "I said I _couldn't_ give you what you wanted, not that I _didn't want to_. I've always wanted to Thomas. And now I've changed - we've changed - and I think I can give you what you want. If you still want me. We need each other, I think, an' I'm sorry it's taken me so long to realise it."

"I'll always want you," Thomas said, pressing his lips to Jimmy's, "I still love you, Jimmy."

"And I love you," Jimmy grinned, "if you'll let me.


End file.
